


Working On It

by pilotisms



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Neighbors, Peter being an old man, Peter doesn't go back to MJ, Peter trying to be smooth, Post-Collider, Reader-Insert, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 08:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: You got used to the screaming the first week he moved in – just… these loud screams in either frustration or anger or pain. Peter B. Parker isn’t a quiet neighbor, but he’s… nice? He’s really rocking the divorcee, life-crisis aesthetic when you meet him for the first time, so you kinda just… let your neighbor be as loud as he needs to be.Or, Peter B. Parker takes a leap of faith with the girl next door.





	1. Plumbing & Typhoid?

**Author's Note:**

> I want to smooch Peter B. Parker. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

He’s…  _not_ really on top of things. 

Peter B. Parker’s life is falling apart – like,  _seriously,_ it’s bad – but at least he’s got Spider-man, y’know? People think he’s cool when he’s Spidey. He does good things then, saves people, stays busy. He’s  _good_ at being Spider-man. Nothing else.

Not even basic plumbing skills. 

You got  _used_ to the screaming the first week he moved in – just… these  _loud_ screams in either frustration or anger or pain. Peter B. Parker isn’t a quiet neighbor, but he’s…  _nice_? He’s really rocking the divorcee, life-crisis aesthetic when you meet him for the first time, so you kinda just… let your neighbor be as loud as he needs to be. 

You’ve met a few times – he helped you bring your groceries up last week. He’s nice enough, but always…  _sad._ On the third time you’d caught him stumbling up the stairs late on a Friday, you’d extended a gentle invite: “If you ever need anything, I’m always a door away.”

In the glow of whiskey and a depressive episode, you were, like, the best thing to happen to him in  _months_. 

He’d meandered over once or twice – band-aids or AA batteries for the remote. 

_ BANG! BANG! BANG! _

You jump, eyes wide as the wall behind you rocks on impact and you move, eyeing the drywall behind your bed’s headboard. 

_What the fuck_?

You slip out of bed, Netflix abandoned and feet quiet. As you move through the kitchen, you can hear the escalation of screaming from Peter’s room – and the  _swearing._ You tug your door open a bit, eyes wide as you realize you’re not the  _only_ neighbor wondering what the hell was going on in there. 

Miss Fitzberg shares a wild look with you.  _Your job, not mine,_ it says.

“No, no, no –”  


Suddenly, Peter’s door flies open and all the other slam shut.

Except yours.  _If you ever need anything –_

You blink at the brunette divorcee. 

He’s…  _soaked._ His t-shirt is clinging to him and the sweats around his waist are drenched. His hair is clinging to his forehead. 

“Peter, what the hell…?”  


_“Hey,_ uh, can I…  _shit, oh god,”_ Peter slips out the door, careening into the wall and huffing, “I… I broke my sink and, I clogged it for a second… but, I can’t get it to stop –”  


From the other room, you hear a loud sputtering noise and Peter’s eyes widen. 

“Son of a bitch.”  


You follow out of  _amusement,_ really, but upon realization that Peter has  _really_ fucked something up because his bathroom sink has the water pressure of a fucking  _fire hydrant_ in it and that  _flooding_ is going to 100% impact your own bathroom through the wall and totally take away your safety deposit, you dive hands first into the rocketing spray of the snapped off faucet. 

You sputter, shrieking a bit at the cold water.

“Peter, turn the knob!”  


“What  _knob_?”  


“The one –” you try to cover the hole, creating a hard spray that catches Peter in the face as he bend to look under the sink, “The  _only one down there_  –”  


He sputters, coughing. “I’m trying not to  _drown_ down here, okay, I can’t really –”  


“Peter, I’m getting  _soaked_ –”  


“This one?”  


He turns it the wrong way. The flow increases, soaking you totally and sending your hands backwards and you tumble to the floor. The slick bathroom tiles aren’t helping – you hit the ground hard and groan, pushing wet hair out of your face as Peter blinks down at you.

“Wrong way, huh?”  


“Peter!”  


“ – Right! Sorry –”   


When the flow stops, you sigh and lay backwards. The apartment is silent for a while, and Peter huffs – he stands, snagging the broken faucet from the floor and eyeing it in his hands.

“Dude,” you say slowly, “You’ve been hogging all the water pressure.”  


Peter is quiet for a second, and then he laughs.

_Really laughs._ His shoulders shake and he smiles and he has dimples that dig into his cheeks and he pushes a hand through his hair. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t look so worn down, so tired. In the many times you’ve crossed paths, you’ve never seen him  _really_ smile. 

It’s a nice change. He looks good  _happy._

You have to laugh then, plucking at your soaked t-shirt and gym shorts. You sit up, pushing your hair up and away before eyeing the faucet in his hands.

“What did the sink  _do_ to you?”  


“Looked at me the wrong way,” he chirps, moving to see if  _maybe_ he can screw it back on. You watch him move, calloused hands fiddle with the piece of metal, “Faucets, man, can’t trust ‘em.”  


“Broken?”  


“Oh yeah,” he hums, “Welcome to my life.  _Broken_. Like my sink.”  


You offer a gentle pat on the shoulder. Your hand slaps against the wet fabric of his t-shirt. You both wince at the sound. “If you ever  _really_ need to wash your hands, my sink is  _not_ broken, y’know.”

Peter  _laughs_ – again. “I… Ha. Heh – thanks, thank you. Yeah, I mean – I guess I’ll have to fix this. Or, like, I’ll just get typhoid or something.”

He stands, copping you this  _look_ that has you laughing and shoving him. “Gross! Peter, that, like,  _killed people_  –”

“Yeah, poop disease –”  


“Oh my god –”  


“Speaking of which, I think I owe you –”  


“Poop disease? You owe me  _poop disease?_ ”  


“No!” Peter chokes, laughing as he waves his hands, “No, I was thinking  _like_ dinner – I dunno, bad way to work my way to the point, but –”  


“You’re going to give me poop disease over dinner?” You’re grinning ear to ear, backtracking down his hallway to the door.  


You’re milking it now and Peter shoves you back. It feels…  _good._ To be  _close_ with someone again. Even if this bonding was really not ideal and kind of making him look like an idiot – but _god,_ you’re funny and nice and pretty and you  _live next door_. This is, like, every fantasy girl he’s ever dreamed of. And there haven’t been many since MJ. 

“I have… pizza?”  


“How about a rain check?” you chirp, leaning in his doorway, “When we both aren’t soaked?”  


“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks, a bold sense of confidence surging through his.  


“Someone’s eager,” you dig, grinning.  


“Yeah, well, it’s not everyday I get to joke about poop disease with my pretty neighbor.”

That lights up your heart and you swallow back a grin. “Tomorrow. But, I’m paying. Because you need to buy a new faucet.”

Peter snorts. “Yeah, like I’ll let that happen.”

You’re in the hall, pointing at him. “Try me, old man.”

Peter isn’t on top of things, but he’s really going to try and be on top of you. 

_Wait_.

Not – no, not like  _that,_ c’mon – like, like he’s going to… 

Y’know what?

Forget it.

He’s going to be good at this – with you, not just Spider-man.


	2. See you, 'round.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-man tries to flirt. You put two and two together.

“So.”  


“So?”  


You peak over the edge of your drink, tilting the angular glass as you smirk. The cosmopolitan in your hands is good – the four of you had beat the Friday night rush after the monthly PTA meeting and now, surrounded by your co-workers, you’re seated on the edge of a bar stool in a nice place in downtown. It’s a leg up from the usual spot – last week, the bar three blocks down from the school was unceremoniously demolished by Green Goblin and Spider-man duking it out over some weird DNA splicer thing. Figures.

Typical New York City.

The T.V. over the bar is replaying clips about the red and blue Spider-hero as you settle in.

“Who is he?”  


You roll your eyes, waving a hand as you take another sip at the question.

Your co-workers react loudly to the dismissal, clamoring at you gently. Jen, the art teacher, gives you a pointed look. “No, nope – c’mon. Gossip. It’s girl’s night.”

“It’s nothing,” you say, “ _We’re_ nothing.”  


You weren’t  _lying_ – you and Peter B. Parker were just…  _neighbors._ For now.

The night after the Great Plumbing Disaster, he’d knocked on your door with two hot, large pizzas in his hands and a devilish smirk on his face – he’d clearly just come from work, donned in his usual grey suit and camera bag slung over his shoulder. In his other hand? An ACE Hardware bag with a new faucet. 

“Pizza and some home improvement?”  


“I thought you’d never ask.”  


And… that was it. I mean, sure, he swung by more often now and maybe the looks you both shared were a little more lingering… and  _maybe_ you thought about kissing him goodnight every time he left your apartment. And  _maybe_  Peter had sent you a drunk text two nights ago asking to go on a  _real_ date. And  _maybe_  you’d agreed and the next morning, when he knocked on your door hungover and with an apology already in his mouth,  _maybe_  you’d  _still_ said yes. 

But… you were just neighbors. For now.

“Nothing?” Mrs. Landon yelps, “Nothing. He came to the front office –”  


And  _maybe_ Peter had decided that dropping flowers off at work for you was a good way to let you know he  _meant_ the apology and the date. 

Yeah,  _maybe_ he’d gotten a visitor’s pass to  _deliver the flowers_ during history –  _maybe_ it churned a lot of giggles out of your third graders as Peter tossed you a wink and a charming: “See you ‘round, beautiful.”

And  _maybe_ it was adorable.   


“He’s  _sexy_ ,” Fran says, waving her hands. The music teacher is a bit older than you but unabashed, “Oh my goodness – he’s  _handsome_. If I wasn’t married –”  


“I second that!”  


You place your drink down, crossing your legs and laughing. You wave your hands, swallowing. “Okay, okay,  _yes_  – I know. He’s adorable and nice and –”

“He’s a  _riot_.”  


“ – That too, but we haven’t been on a  _real date yet,_ so it’s still not a  _thing_ –”  


You spend the rest of the night dodging the obvious prying – eventually the conversation moves on to Linda and her son’s new girlfriend, and you spend the night in the company of your fellow teachers. The staff of the small Brooklyn elementary school where you taught was like a second family to you; by the end of the night, you’re buzzed and feeling thankful.

The group of you are all waiting for an Uber when  _it happens._

I mean, in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t as  _cool_ as you’d thought, but you’d never  _seen_ Spider-man up close and personal. Living in NYC, you were bound to at some point, yeah, but never did you think you’d be  _outright flirted with you_ while he held a  _taxi above his head._

“Hey.”  


“Uh –”  


Peter’s footing slips a bit, groaning as he hauls the taxi up and over his head. Down the street, Venom is going about his usual  _bullshit_ – the throw had been good enough to catch and you can’t help but feel small under the hero’s gaze.

God, you look nice.  _Really_ nice. It must have been PTA night. You’d been worried about making a good impression on this years new round of parents. Peter’s trying not to be so distracted by the heels.

Confidence strikes his in the gut.

“Come here often?”  


He winks.

The mask is…  _charming._

And he’s familiar. The voice. The mannerisms. Everything.

You’re hooked in the jaw with the pickup line, brows shooting up as you sputter. It’s…  _cute._ You’re grinning ear to ear and Peter is, too, under the mask.

“I, uh, no, I mean – Isn’t that  _heavy?”_

“What? _This?”_  Peter makes this snorting noise under his mask, trying to make the taxi seem weightless in his arms. He’s breaking into a sweat, “Ha! No, no, it’s uh…  _no_.”  


He moves, putting the yellow cab down in the street as gently as possible before rolling his shoulders. He blinks between you and then to the big black beast at the end of the street before cracking his neck rather unceremoniously. 

“Listen, I’d love to stay and charm the hell outta you, but –”  


“ _SPIDER-MAN!”_  


_“_ – This guy just  _really_ needs a snickers, y’know?”  


You don’t know why he seems so familiar and you don’t know what to say – and you  _really_ don’t know what to say when the infamous Spider-man cocks his head your way and laughs:

“See you ‘round, beautiful.”

It hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Oh my fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write this over at whirlybirbs.tumblr.com if you're interested in following!


	3. Forget it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date is had, kisses are shared... and you just... ignore the spider in the room.

You don’t tell him – of course you don’t. God, yea, that would look  _totally normal_.

Like, over dinner?  _Hi Peter, I know we’re just starting to see one another, but I think you’re the Spider-man._

I mean, there’s just…  _no way._

You chew a little faster through nerves, hands moving to grip the stem of your wine glass as Peter B. Parker leans back in his seat and eyes you across the dining table. He moves, fiddling absentmindedly with the crisp, white collar against his neck. His spider-sense is nagging him, but no matter how many times he  _tries_ to figure out what’s tricking the mental alarm, he comes up short.

Maybe the hit Venom landed on him last night hammered home some everlasting brain damage. 

Gotta love it. 

“You alright?”  


You don’t tell him.

You peep, swallowing the wine and steak before blinking up at Peter across the table. He’s got an eyebrow raised, eyes narrowed on the surprised look on your face. He’s looking at you over his wine, and you nod hurriedly, waving your hands.

Peter fiddles with his fork out of sheer nervousness.  _Was this not going well? He thought things were – well, good. You look good. Really good._

And  _he does too._ You’re tripping over yourself all through dinner, trying not to stare at the man in front of you – he’s black and white in his suit, watch glinting in the light of the restaurant. Your gaze glues itself to his throat as he swallows. 

“Yeah,” you say, laughing a little, “Yeah, I’m great – just… I just remembered I had some papers left to grade and, uh…  _yeah_  –”  


“Papers, huh?” Peter sips his drink, smirk apparent, “Are those third graders working on their senior thesis’s?”   


God, sometimes you forget how  _charming_ he is. The smile on your face is this weird mixture of a little dumbstruck and a little lovesick and Peter’s chest puffs with pride – you watch, biting back a laugh as he smiles and leans back again, enjoying his wine and the view of you, all flustered and breathless.

“Yea,” you say slowly, “They’re working on developing a research theory on the importance of recess.”

“Oo,” Peter grins, “Good topic, lots to get into.”

And the both of you sit there, staring at each other like lovesick teenagers until the waiter comes over and you both agree on a dessert. In the glow of wine and candles and the aftermath of a fork battle over chocolate cake, the two of you leave the restaurant hand in hand. 

It feels  _good,_ like Peter isn’t so alone in all this – and you  _still_ wanted to hold his hand after he’d unceremoniously spit out a chunk of cake out when you’d told him about your students’ new obsession with him. The girls especially.

“Maybe I should visit the class more.”  


He’s half joking, but you grin, happily following him up the stairs of your shared apartment complex. 

“They’d like that,” you say, making your way into the elevator in the lobby, “ _I’d_ like that.”   


Peter blinks, finger lingering over the button for the sixth floor. “… Really?”

“Oh,  _yeah,_ I mean – we don’t really do a career day… we don’t want students feeling alienated if they have a parent who’s too busy working or can’t come in to present, so –”  


Peter is  _glowing_ with a smile, staring at you like you’re the most precious thing in this entire universe. I mean, you are. To him. You crumble into a nervous fit of laughter under his gaze, nudging his shoulder. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m not  _cool_ –”  


“That’s not true –”  


“I’m a  _loser_ ,” he says as the doors pull open, “Y’know, the lonely idiot next door who makes minimum wage selling photos to J. Jonah Jamison. I’m like… like, I dunno. A bad whore with mediocre angles.”  


“Your photos are  _great,_ Pete,” you insist, “And you take pictures of  _Spider-man_. The kids love him.”  


You’re testing the waters. Pete’s spidey-sense tingles again, his spine lighting up with pin-pricks.  _Hm._ He wonders if there’s any way –

No, no, I mean, that’s impossible. He’d kept his distance the other night…

Okay, that’s a lie, but still. There was no way – MJ didn’t know until a year into dating. 

But, you were no MJ. 

He wasn’t really sure what that meant yet, but he was  _happy –_ not feeling so depressed and so burnt out. He was looking forward to something; looking forward to coming home to his shitty apartment, looking forward to see you in said shitty apartment. There was a new pep in his step. His back didn’t hurt so much. His old self was on the rebound.

“You want me to come in for the class.”  


“I want you to, yea. How could you tell?”  


You’re standing in front of your apartment door, lips pulled into a grin. Peter’s the same way, hands pushed into the ironed black slacks. He’s laughing, toeing the ground when you speak again. You take the time to admire the stubble along his jaw. He looks…  _good._ Not so tired. 

“You don’t have to,” you say, “Just gives me an excuse to see you.”  


Peter’s brows raise. Your gaze is gentle.

“You don’t need an excuse, y’know.”  


“Oh?” you hum, chewing your lip, “You don’t either – if, y’know, you’re into that.”  


“I am,” he laughs, deep and quiet, “I am into that.  _Very_  intothat.”  


A beat of silence. You both dissolve into laughter.

You still don’t tell him.

“Thanks for dinner, Peter,” you finally say, moving to snag the keys from your purse, “I had a lot of fun –”  


“I did too,” he offers, stepping a bit closer, “And I wanna do it again, y’know. No excuses, I just… I like you.”  


“Oh thank god,” you deflate, “I was hoping this wasn’t a one-sided sort of thing –”  


He smothers the rambling with a kiss that has you melting into the hands finding their place along your jaw. You have to grin, lips pulling upwards as Peter’s do too – your hands wind into his jacket, search for keys forgotten. Peter sways a bit, leaning to pull away…

Only to see the dumbstruck look on your face which has him going in for another kiss out of pure pride. He missed this. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, planting another kiss on your lips, “I just – I wasn’t kidding when I said I like you.”  


You have to laugh – 

And the pressing question in the back of your mind is forgotten until two days later.


End file.
